Once you decide you are an artist – and mean it – the rest falls away like the clothes of a lover. – Barker Ajax
The nerve of some people.
Just because
he says he’s my doctor.
He asked me a question
I often ask myself,
why do you write?
Good question.
That’s why he has the paneled-office
with the soothing Scandanuvian furniture
in a light oak.
I write because
I cannot sing
or play piano
or draw
or whistle or whittle.
I feel creative.
Like I am going to burst
if I don’t let it out.
That’s not true.
Keeps me out of trouble,
gets me into trouble.
Got fired
from my own magazine.
Wrote a hugely popular column
all the advertisers hated.
Published a critically-acclaimed,
award-winning
compendium nobody bought.
Whatever. Blah, blah.
Doesn’t matter.
Thought out of nowhere.
Part of the problem is
many people are trying to do this
sober.
That’s a whole different thing.
If it’s fun,
does it matter
if anybody reads it?
I am an optimist,
I know this about myself,
and I am convinced somebody,
somewhere,
sometime,
will read my words.
At the very least, I expect a response.
This is good… this is interesting…
this is shit.
Maybe there’s a pony,
did you ever think of that?
I am the artist
who puts the note in the bottle
and sets it off in the outgoing tide.
Thinking a really hot babe
will pick it up on a sunny beach
and wish she could rescue me.
I am the grandfather
with some serious smart offspring
who might uncover my eternal wisdom
on The Cloud.
Wherever the hell that is.
And they’ll think…
wow, DooDah was an amazing hero.
Okay, maybe… what a loser,
and remember
he was Nana’s second husband.
I’ll take my chances.
Because let’s be honest,
one of the reasons guys like us write
is so as-many-people-as-possible discover
how fuckin’ cool we are.
How many people does it take
to make you cool?
Never forget to remember,
if you have to announce how cool you are,
you can’t be cool.
Notice I have taken money
right off the table.
Not on the table.
If you are twenty to whatever,
it’s back on the table.
I am like a million years old,
money has lost its charm.
I say that,
because I learned long ago,
money has no idea where I live.
Can’t find me.
Only want more attention,
if it meant more money
in my cigar box under the mattress.
Those home health nurses don’t come cheap.
And the friendliest ones want cash.
What I hope happens,
what is likely to happen,
what probably happens,
doesn’t really much matter.
Particularly
if you don’t do the work.
Said this before,
still true,
I’ll be dead,
still waiting…
Spent most of my life
waiting
to be discovered.
Imagine my surprise
to learn,
nobody was looking for me.
Doesn’t mean I’m lost.
The nerve of some people.
Asking me questions
I long ago stopped asking myself.
Who are you? I am a writer.
Very old.
Cool like ice.
Took me all my life
to get here.
Like those glaciers that break off
crying.
Hate to learn
somebody came
looking for me
and I left no clues.